The Darkangel

by Pierce, Meredith Ann

  She sat down upon the deserted stair. Her heart was beating very hard in the tightness of her throat. She could not think. She had expected an ally—no more than a frightened girl, perhaps, but some helpmate. Thought of the task ahead almost overwhelmed her. Now it fell upon her alone.

  She felt crushed, breathless, but she made herself take breath. Her knees were weak, but she forced herself to rise. The duarough was waiting for her. The wraiths depended on her. And her own life hung on this now as well. A kind of calm stole over her, more numbness, she thought dimly, than calm. Slowly, she went down the stairs. Going out into the garden then, she followed the long steps into the caves.

  The duarough was in the treasure room at his apparatus as she had expected him to be. He held a strangely shaped metal bowl in his hand under a glass tube that dripped, slowly dripped a clear, glowing liquid into the bowl. He glanced over his shoulder when Aeriel came in, but did not turn around.

  "Has the icarus returned?"

  Aeriel did not answer him at first, stood silent for a time. Then she said faintly, "Yes."

  The little man murmured his acknowledgment and adjusted some coupling of his apparatus with one hand. "And you have spoken with his bride?"

  Still he did not turn.

  Aeriel drew breath. "I did not have to," she told him, "for it is I."

  The duarough started and nearly spilled the liquid he was catching. The cup was brimful.

  He reached and turned the key in the side of the glass tubing; the liquid ceased to drip. He put the bowl down beside him on the stack of books. A single drop slipped over the edge.

  She saw the little gobbet of bright liquid disappear in a puff of vapor the instant it left the rim of the bowl—and Aeriel realized then that it was not a bowl at all, but the hoof of the equustel.

  "Now will you tell me," she asked him, "how we shall kill the vampyre?"

  The duarough stood facing her, his back pressed to the distillery. His small stone-colored eyes had widened. "Daughter," he murmured, "what did you say?"

  "Tell me," began Aeriel, flatly, "how shall we... ?" but the little man's sputtering cut her off.

  "Before that."

  Aeriel looked away. "It is I," she repeated softly. "The vampyre has chosen me for his bride. There is no other."

  The duarough let out his breath then, seemed to sag. "Ye gods," he breathed, "O Ancient Ones. What shall be done?" But in a moment he regained himself. His eyes flicked back to hers. "Aeriel," he said. "I am afraid for you. If you should fail..."

  "I shall die," she heard herself saying; her voice sounded oddly dispassionate, "forever, as will my friend Eoduin, and all the others of the wraiths. Then the seven icari will be made invincible, and they will rule the world."

  She felt her scattered thoughts beginning to return now, after the shock of learning she was the icarus' bride. She was more clearly aware of the chamber around her, could feel her own body more distinctly. She remembered a desert proverb suddenly, one she had learned from Orroto-to: "Go coward into battle, and you will fall. Go brave, and you may not. And if not heart-brave, at least face-brave." Aeriel put on the bravest face she could, then, and turned back toward the duar-ough.

  "But I do not intend to fail." Her voice held more assurance than she felt. "Now tell me what to do."

  The little man stood looking at her a moment, chewing one knuckle, his eyes deep with concern. Then he took hold of himself as well, murmured, "Ah, well, if we must, we must." He crossed the room to where the fire burned. "So little time," he fidgeted. "So little time."

  Then he fell on his knees by the flickering wreath of white flame. All the floor was pale limestone, but the pits had been filled with smooth white sand. The fire had been built over one of these, Aeriel saw, as the duarough began to dig in the soft grit. The brushwood, dislodged from its stack, fell over and smothered out as the little man dug determinedly with his hands, tossing the pale grains, careless of where they fell.

  Aeriel drew breath as the flames died and darkness leapt to fill the room. "Why have you done that?" she whispered at him. The sudden dark uneased her.

  But then she saw that the room was not quite all dark. Tiny flames beneath the glass vessels still burned—too faint to relieve the gloom, but there was another light in the chamber. On the floor, at the very center where the duarough dug, the sand glowed—or rather, she saw, it was not the sand but something beneath the sand, shining up through the translucent grains.

  "Patience, daughter," the duarough said. "We'll not need that little fire in just a moment."

  He brushed the last of the sand away from the object in the small pit he had made. Its light shone forth and filled the room. It was a dagger with a blade like a snaking ray of the sun. The duarough lifted it reverently, and Aeriel saw the fine chain falling from its haft.

  "What is it?" she murmured, staring. The darkness and the duarough's solemnity caused her to hush her voice.

  "The edge adamantine," he answered, proudly. "It fell into my keeping—oh, a long time past." He held the dagger out to her. Aeriel drew back, surprised. "Take it with you," he explained, "when you go to the vampyre's chambers. I cannot follow until the sun is down. Keep it concealed if things go aright. But if things fall awry, draw it out: its light will blind him and its heat scathe him until you may escape."

  Aeriel looked at the blade that burned like starfire, reached to take it from him and put the chain about her neck; beneath her garment, the blade fell against her breastbone, lay close against her between her breasts. She fingered its haft. The duarough rose and moved off a moment, then returned and put the hoof of the starhorse into her hands. Its contents shone.

  "Only the chalice-hoof of the immortal horse can hold this liquor," he informed her.

  "What is it?" Aeriel inquired.

  He shook his head. "Fear not to drink of it yourself, daughter. Its properties are marvelous, and it is bane only to the vampyre and his kind."

  Aeriel arose. "I must go," she told the duarough, "and prepare." The two means the little mage had put into her hands had steadied her. She cradled the chalice-hoof in cupped palms, careful not to spill any.

  The duarough laid his hand on hers a moment. "Yes, child," he answered, "go. There is not time to lose."

  Aeriel stood in the spinning room amid the wraiths. She knew the sun was nearly down, despite her haste to bathe her body in the warm, bright water of the cave, to comb her now electrum-pale hair, to wind about her the yards and yards of sari into a bridal gown.

  But among the wraiths she stood now, attired as the vam-pyre's bride.

  She said, "The time has come. I am going to slay the darkangel now, and rescue your souls." For all the bravery of the words, she could not quite keep the tremor from her voice.

  "But why do you go," one of the wraiths said, "attired as a bride?" Their minds had slowly come back to them, trace by trace, over the last day-month.

  "Because he means to take me as his bride," said Aeriel.

  The wraiths moaned and muttered. "So this is how he punishes you for running away."

  A shaky laugh escaped Aeriel. She let it go, as much to relieve her tension as express her irony. "No. He thinks to honor me."

  "As he has honored us," they shrieked. "He has honored us to death."

  "Hush, hush," cried Aeriel. "I will not let him kill me. I have the chalice that will lay him low, and the blade to breach his heart."

  The wraiths murmured dolefully. "We fear for you," they said. "Let us come with you.

  We are so thin, we may hide anywhere—in the curtains, in the bedclothes with never a wrinkle. We are not strong, but we are horrible to look at. He pretends only contempt for us, but we know we frighten him." The wasted women nodded eagerly, then consulted among themselves. "If you should falter," one of them said to Aeriel, "or things should run amiss, we might be of use to you."

  She started to protest, and would have bid them stay, save that they wept and wailed and clung to her so, Aeriel knew they wo
uld not let her go until she agreed. Reluctantly, she resigned herself. And despite herself, she was glad of companions—anyone to accompany her now. She nodded.

  "Follow me, then," she bade the wraiths, and their delighted laughter sounded like sand scritch-ing softly over a dry stone floor.

  The nearest wraith took hold, in her frail, mummy-like hands, of the hem of Aeriel's garment. The next wraith took hold of her sister's hem, and those behind did the same until they formed a train. Seizing the chalice firmly in both hands, Aeriel led them out of their chamber and into the hall.

  The white, soft setting glare of Solstar shone long veils through the windows. The broad interstices of shade in between were empty black. Passing now from light to dark to light again, Aeriel found herself sweating and shivering by turns. She tried to hold the bright bowl steady.

  Glancing back over her shoulder, she eyed the crumpled train of wraiths. They were so bent and fragile now, and most of them so nearly blind, they would have lost their way at once in the rambling corridors without her guidance. So thin were they, they seemed translucent. Aeriel could scarcely see them in the waning brightness, lost them completely in the velvet shadows.

  Their progress seemed maddeningly slow. Sol-star was already half sunk away. Aeriel balanced the brimming cup and urged the feeble wraiths forward. They made what haste they could. At last they reached the vampyre's quarters, set at the end of the long, empty hall. Aeriel felt all her impatience evaporating into dread.

  Slowly, she led the wraiths up the long, straight stair to the small, ornately fashioned door. It stood fast shut—she had never seen it open—but when she lifted the latch, it gave inward, swung open. Aeriel hesitated a long moment, then led the wraiths inside.

  The outer chambers were spacious and, to her great surprise after living so long in the vast, deserted keep, fully furnished with stools and tables, cushions, curtains, cabinets, and shelves. She and the wraiths passed through or beside sitting rooms, servants'

  quarters, a tiled bath, a study. Aeriel found herself admiring the mosaic inlay of subtle-hued soapstone and the pillars of smooth, colored marble.

  They came to the suite's inner chamber last, and it seemed very small in comparison.

  Long curtains fell beside columns partitioning the room proper from the broad outside terrace. The bed was small, but carved of some dark, rare wood, and richly canopied.

  At the foot of the bed lay a chest such as one might store clothes or linens in, but as she drew near to it, Aeriel saw it must be a toychest, for on its inlaid lid rested two playthings only a princeling might have: a dragon carved of ivory, with claws of black onyx, and a rag doll of costly satins and velvets, sewn with pearls.

  As she set the chalice down beside the playthings on the chest, it occurred to Aeriel that this must have been a child's room before the dark-angel came. It puzzled her that nothing in the room had been disturbed, nothing taken by the queen and her people, when they had removed to Esternesse.

  The dusk-lit room went suddenly dark. Aeriel started, turned, realized even as she did so that it was only Solstar having set. She went to turn up the oil lamps that burned low in niches in the walls. The wraiths milling about the room turned their blind eyes from the light. As Aeriel brightened the final lamp, one of the wasted women halted.

  "He is coming!" hissed the wraith.

  The others stopped. Aeriel stopped. She dropped her hand from the lamp, padded swiftly to the center of the room. She stood, arms folded across her breast, listening. The silence of the great deserted keep strained against her ears. Then above the soft hissing of the lampwicks' burning, she caught sound of something: uneven footfalls moving across the great hall outside, the rustle of many wings.

  "Quick." Aeriel gestured to the wraiths, her voice a tight whisper, lest he hear. "Hide yourselves."

  The starved women melted into the shadows and the dim places of the room, became motionless, invisible. Aeriel lifted the horse's hoof and held it cupped in her hands.

  The footsteps drew nearer across the hall. She heard the darkangel ascending the long, straight stair, crossing through the outer chambers. Aeriel tried to steady her trembling hands. She stood facing the doorway. The soft white lamplight played pale shadows across the walls. The vampyre's halt step stalked nearer, nearer. Aeriel closed her eyes and held her breath.

  The footfalls ceased. Aeriel opened her eyes. The icarus stood in the doorway before her.

  His deep black pinions, save for the one, fell like a mantle from his shoulders. His colorless eyes looked her up and down, once.

  "Well, wife," he said. The long rends in his face and shoulder gaped. "You are very beautiful, almost worthy of me." Aeriel drew a long, shuddering breath at the sight of him. The vam-pyre smiled. "You tremble—are you cold? Soon you will not mind the cold."

  He left the doorway and came toward her. Aeriel clutched the silver hoof.

  "What is that?" he said.

  Aeriel glanced at the vessel in her hand. She spoke and tried to keep her voice steady. "It is the custom of my people to drink a bridal cup."

  He laughed. "A quaint custom. I had not heard of it." He settled back, arms folded, eyeing the cup in her hands. "But we are not among your people now."

  Aeriel gazed at him, felt her blood quicken. "But," she stammered, "you must drink."

  "And why is that?" the vampyre inquired.

  Fear welled up to drown her thoughts. She searched desperately for some persuasion, felt the blade of the hidden dagger burning upon her breast. "It would please me," she began,

  "for you to drink...."

  The icarus' arms unfolded. His hands went to his hips. "And why should I suffer to do anything at all that pleases you?" he scoffed, sharp-edged annoyance creeping into his voice. "I am the master here."

  A notion surfaced; Aeriel let out her breath.

  Her blood returned. A lump of relief rose in her throat. She schooled her voice to be forceful and clear. "If you do not drink, husband-to-be, we will not be truly wed. Then you will have not fourteen brides, but only twelve-and-one." The vampyre snorted, pursed his lips in scorn. "Come, it is a small concession," she pressed. "Why quibble?"

  The icarus dropped his hands from his hips suddenly and laughed, a dark and irritated laugh. "Very well," he snapped. "Let us drink, wench, since you are so adamant. I will have my own way in all things soon enough." He held out his hand. "Give me the cup."

  But Aeriel had already raised the vessel to her own lips. The dram smelled faintly of almond milk. She sipped; the drink was warmer than liquor and cooler than mint, the taste strong and bittersweet, like homflowers, but much deeper. Its warmth spread through her body. She felt suddenly stronger, more awake and more alive. The lamps about the chamber seemed to burn brighter against the dark. She held out the hoof of the starhorse to the icarus. He took it in his hand and laughed again.

  "A curious vessel," he remarked, frowning. "It reminds me of... of..."

  Aeriel felt her veins constrict. She knew she must say something, lest he grow wary.

  "We... we borrowed the tradition from the plains."

  The vampyre shrugged, ignoring her. "I cannot think what," he finished, raised the silver hoof to his lips and downed its contents in a draught. Aeriel watched him, and dared not breathe. He smiled at her and laid the cup aside.

  "Now we are wed," he said. "What was the dram—wine of some tree you found fruiting in the garden?"

  Aeriel shook her head. "Nothing fruits in your garden."

  "Oh?" he said, not greatly interested. His eyes devoured her. "What was it, then?"

  "I don't know," said Aeriel. Unease crouched between her shoulder blades. Why did he not fall?—did he not feel the liquor's heat? She had felt its burning warmth at once, still felt it. Aeriel fell back a step as the darkangel advanced.

  He stopped, seemingly amused at her retreat. "What do you mean?" he asked, toying with the leaden vials at his throat. Aeriel eyed his lean, white fingers, imagined their strength:
fingers that snapped bats' bones and tore out lizards' tongues, throttled his brides to death that he might drink off their blood, steal away their souls, and tear out their hearts for the gargoyles. Aeriel felt faint.

  "Surely it was some fruit of my garden," he said.

  She held him off with her eyes, felt herself growing desperate. He was no weaker—

  seemed if anything stronger than before. A slow panic crept over her. The duarough had been mistaken. The darkangel was invincible. No poison could touch him. He was frowning slightly now, since she did not answer.

  "The duarough gave it to me," she said; she could not think of any lie.

  The vampyre looked at her, uncomprehending. "Who—?" he started, but stopped short.

  His skin, always before so translucent fair, went suddenly waxy. He laid a hand on his throat and swallowed hard. His wings, no longer folded, poised tensely, like a dozen hawks ready to stoop. His frown deepened; his lips tightened into a grimace. Then he wrapped his arms about his middle with a cry.

  "Poison. You have poisoned me—ah! I burn!"

  He sank down on one knee, his face twisted in pain. Aeriel shrank back from him, appalled. She had not known it would be like this. The duarough had never told her the potion would bring him pain. She had imagined he would fall insensate at the first sip.

  The darkangel's head jerked up; the leaden necklace clinked, and she saw his eyes—wild and bright.

  "After the great honor I have done you," he cried hoarsely, "choosing you first as my servant, now as my wife—this is your repayment?"

  He gasped and twisted, clutching his waist. His face contorted as in agony. Aeriel pressed her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming.

  "I am on fire," he said through clenched teeth, panting with the effort. "You have killed me— but you'll not live to celebrate it."

  He struggled to his feet, his dark wings thrashing wildly. Their wind stirred the gauze hangings, flattened her sari's folds against her body, made the oil lamps gutter. But for all their desperate fury, they could scarcely help him rise. He clutched at the bed-curtain, reached out his free hand toward Aeriel, leaned forward to enfold her in his wings.